


Larabee's Rifles

by SusanMM



Category: Richard Sharpe - Fandom, The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Peninsular War AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanMM/pseuds/SusanMM
Summary: Richard Sharpe is doing his best to fight the French in Spain, and fight the red tape of the British military.  Major Chris Larabee has just been transferred to the South Essex -- Sharpe's unit -- and he outranks our favorite green-jacketed Rifleman.





	Larabee's Rifles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the Magnificent Seven Fanfic Corral group on Facebook](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+Magnificent+Seven+Fanfic+Corral+group+on+Facebook).



 

**Larabee’s Rifles**

 

Susan M. M

 

_Richard Sharpe/Magnificent Seven AU_

 

Spain, 1812

 

 

            Richard Sharpe swore under his breath as he dipped the pen into the inkwell.   As far as he was concerned, the worst part of war – worse than the blood and rifle smoke and hunger and fatigue – was the paperwork.  His blond hair was uncombed. His green uniform jacket, somewhat tattered and stained with French blood, was thrown over the back of his chair.  He heard heavily booted steps coming toward his tent.  He prayed the footsteps would continue on and go somewhere else.  God, as usual, wasn’t listening.

            “Captain Sharpe?” a voice called in a thick Irish brogue.

            Sharpe suppressed a sigh.  “Come in, Harper.”

            Sgt. Patrick Harper pushed the tent flap aside and stepped in.  He was a big man, a bear of a man, wearing a green rifleman’s uniform.  He looked perfectly capable of putting a cannon to his broad shoulder and firing it, let alone a rifle.  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”

            “Know what?”

            “You’re about to lose the Rifles.”

            “What?”  Sharpe whirled around.  He knocked over the inkwell, spilling it all over the company records he’d just spent the last hour struggling over.

            “New officer coming in,” Harper reported.  “No room for promotion in his regiment, so he bought a promotion into the South Essex.  He’s going to be taking over.”

            Sharpe swore loudly.  There was one thing he hated more than paperwork.  He despised the British Army’s system of selling commissions, whereby a well-bred idiot with plump pockets could gain rank, whether or not he knew the first thing about fighting.  Sharpe had seen too many British soldiers risk or even lose their lives unnecessarily because some gentry-cove thought that because he’d look handsome in uniform, because he could afford the price of a commission, because he’d translated Caesar’s bloody adventures at Eton, that he had the right, the ability, to command real men. 

            Sharpe had been a sergeant, and a good one, until the day he saved Wellington’s life.  The general had granted him a battlefield commission as a reward.  He hadn’t been able to afford to buy a promotion, if his superiors had been willing to sell him a captaincy, which he doubted.  It had taken him years to fight his way from lieutenant to captain, years of commanding enlisted men who resented him and his orders because he wasn’t ‘a proper officer,’ years of dealing with ‘brother officers’ who wasted no time in letting him know that in their opinions, he was not ‘an officer and a gentleman,’ nor would he ever be.  When he had finally earned his captaincy in battle, either a clerical error at Horse Guards[1] or – more likely – malicious meddling from someone who disapproved of him getting above his station had prevented his promotion to captain from being confirmed.  He’d had to lead the Forlorn Hope over the walls of Badajoz to re-earn his captaincy and have it confirmed.

            “Who is he and when is he coming?” Sharpe demanded.

            “Major Laramore, sir.”  Harper took a deep breath before adding, “And he’s coming today.”

            “Today?  Bloody hell, Harper, usually your sources are better than that.”

            “Sorry, sir.”  The Irishman was chagrinned.  Normally the non-coms’ grapevine was more efficient.

            “What do you know about him?  Where did he serve?  Who’d he serve with?” Sharpe asked.  His voice was a little calmer now, although he wasn’t – couldn’t be – happy about the situation.  The British army had never asked for his approval before, and he doubted they were about to start now.

            Harper opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice called from outside the tent.  “Captain?”

            “Dunne.”  Sharpe recognized the voice.  It belonged to a young ensign barely older than some of the drummer boys, whom Wellington used as an errand boy.  “Come in, Dunne.”

            The teenager stepped into the tent and saluted smartly.  Despite the dust and mud of the camp, his scarlet uniform was as neatly pressed as if his mother’s abigail had just given it to him.  “Major Hogan’s compliments, sir, and you’re to report to him at once.”

            Sharpe and Harper exchanged knowing glances.  Hogan was an engineer.  He was also Wellington’s spymaster.  Sharpe reached for his jacket; one didn’t keep Hogan waiting.

            The dark-haired ensign cleared his throat.  “Um, sir?”

            One blond eyebrow rose.  “Yes, Dunne?” 

            “You might want to put on a different jacket,” Dunne suggested tentatively.

            “Sgt. Harper’s wife has my other jacket.”  Ramona Harper, like many of the sergeants’ wives, did laundry for the soldiers.  Unlike the ‘proper officers,’ Sharpe had only two jackets.  “Besides, Hogan’s never been bothered by French blood.”

            “Yes, sir,” Dunne murmured.

            “Coming, Harper?” Sharpe called over his shoulder.

            “Aye, sir.”  Harper fell in behind him.  Hogan hadn’t invited him, but Harper often tagged along behind his captain.  It made Sharpe look more important, as if he had an aide-de-camp.  Looking busy was a good way for Harper to avoid being saddled with unwanted chores (especially chores beneath the dignity of a rifleman).  And ‘twas a good way to find out what was happening.  Contrary to the officers’ suspicions, the non-coms’ grapevine didn’t just happen.  It took work.

* * *

 

 

            Ten minutes later, Sharpe reported to Major Hogan.  He saluted smartly.  “Captain Sharpe, reporting as ordered, sir.”

            Hogan glanced at Harper and Dunne, who flanked Sharpe.  “D’you always travel with an honor guard, Richard?”  He gave Harper a sharp look.  “Out, Pat.”  His voice was firm, but not unkind.

            “Aye, sir.”  Harper removed himself with military precision.  He might argue with Major Hogan in private, one Irishman to another, but not when there were other officers present.

            Hogan looked at Dunne a moment, as if considering whether to order him out, too.  Then he turned to the three men waiting behind him.  “Major Larabee, I have the honor to present Captain Richard Sharpe and Ensign John Dunne.  Both officers of great potential – ”

            Dunne blushed at that.

            “ – and Lord Wellington and I would both be grateful to you for not killing them unnecessarily.”[2]

            “And if it’s necessary to kill them?” Larabee asked dryly.

            “Well, that’s another matter entirely,” Hogan agreed.  His Irish accent was not quite as strong as Harper’s.  He nodded at Larabee.  “Major Christopher Larabee, the colonel’s new adjutant.  His associates, Captain Wilmington, Lieutenant Standish.”

            “I look forward to serving with you, sir,” Sharpe lied as politely as he could.  He waited to see if Larabee would extend his hand.  Too many times he’d attempted to shake hands with his fellow officers, only to be rebuffed.

            He studied the three men silently.  Larabee was tall and blond.  His face was rugged; his green eyes were solemn, almost sorrowful.  His red uniform covered a muscular body.  He looked like an actual soldier instead of a Park Avenue dandy.  Wilmington was tall –  taller than Harper – with dark curly hair and blue eyes that held a mischievous glint.  Standish was shorter, and a bit younger.  His hair was dark, with auburn highlights, and his uniform showed careful tailoring.  He did look like a Park Avenue dandy.

            Larabee did not offer his hand.  He, too, studied Sharpe in silence.

            “I’ve heard about you,” Major Larabee admitted after a moment..  “You’re supposed to be a loose cannon.  Came up from the ranks, and you don’t know your place.”

            Sharpe bit his lip to keep from making an angry retort.

            “I’ve also heard you’re a damned good soldier.”

            Sharpe relaxed a fraction of an inch.  His face remained expressionless, but his muscles unclenched slightly.  Larabee’s eyes narrowed.  Sharpe realized that Larabee had noted his movement, slight as it was.  Sharpe suspected there was very little those eyes – which on closer inspection were more hazel than green – missed.

            “In addition to assisting the colonel with the day to day running of the regiment, Major Larabee’s taken an interest in the Rifles,” Hogan explained.

            “So I’ve heard, sir,” Sharpe admitted.

            Hogan raised one bushy eyebrow, but did not comment.  “Now, I have a wee little errand that needs tending to, and your lads, Richard, could tend to it very nicely.”

                        “With all due respect, sir, your errands are more dangerous to my men than Bonaparte.”

                        Ignoring him, Hogan continued, “You know the partisans have spies among the _Afranescos_.”

                         “The _Afranescos_ , they’re the Spanish traitors?” Wilmington asked.

Hogan nodded.  “They claim they’re as loyal to Spain as the partisans are, but they want Carlos off the throne.  They thought Boney would help bring Spain into the 19th century, or at the very least, the 18th.  They didn’t expect him to seat his own brother on the throne.  We’ve learned that several of Boney’s top generals will be meeting at a _hacienda_ in the mountains.   They’ll be discussing strategy, making plans, etc.  Also delivering supplies and munitions.  Take that _hacienda_ , and Boney is crippled in Spain, his troops like a snake with its head chopped off.”

                        Standish removed a silver snuff box from his pocket and ostentatiously took a pinch of snuff.  “Unfortunately, sir, the events of the Revolution proved that the French rabble are quite capable of fighting in the absence of their betters to provide leadership.”

                        “There’s fighting and there’s organized fighting, Lieutenant.  Trust me, the loss of these men will make a difference to Napoleon’s forces,” Hogan told him.  “I want that _hacienda_ taken.  I’d prefer prisoners, but if that’s not possible then kill the buggers.  Capture the munitions if you can, destroy them if you can’t.”

                        “I was under the impression we were the king’s soldiers, not a pack of kidnappers and thieves,” Standish said disdainfully.

                        “What about the _hacienda_?  Who owns it?” Sharpe asked.

                        “What does it matter who owns it?” Larabee seemed annoyed by the _non sequitar_.

                        “If it belongs to some don who’s on a first name basis with Wellington, we’ll try not to damage the place too much.  If it belongs to an _Afranesco_ , we can just set fire to the building.”  Sharpe paused a moment.  “Artillery would be even better, but probably not practical in the mountains.”

                        “Do you call that an honorable way to do battle, Captain Sharpe?” Larabee demanded.

                        “It’s not my job to die for king and country, sir,” Sharpe retorted.  “It’s my job to make Johnny Frenchman die for Boney.”

                        Wilmington grinned.

                        Hogan looked at Larabee a moment.  “Tell me, Major, would you shoot a man in the back?”

                        “Of course not!”  Major Larabee was insulted by the question.

                        “Sharpe, would you?”

                        The rifleman nodded.  “If it meant a French scout didn’t come back to his lines with a report, or a cavalryman’s saber didn’t slice up one of my men, certainly.”  Sharpe decided not to mention that he had shot men in the back, more than once.

                        “Mr. Dunne, pay close attention to both these men,” Hogan ordered.  “Major Larabee will teach you to be an officer and a gentleman.  Captain Sharpe will teach you to be a soldier.”  He turned to Larabee.  “I’m attaching Mr. Dunne to you; the experience will be good for him.  Sharpe is captain of the South Essex’s Light Company.  Take him and his men, and take that _hacienda_.”

                        “Yes, sir,” Larabee replied.

 

 

* * *

 

                        Patrick Harper waited outside Hogan’s tent, his rifle slung over one shoulder.  He saw three soldiers waiting nearby, a sergeant and two privates.  The sergeant was as tall as he was, and older by several years.  One private was scrawny and scraggly, with brown hair that needed cutting.  The other private had short black hair, black as coal, and brown skin.  Harper stared.

                        The tall, tawny-haired non-com noticed his gaze.  “You got a problem with Private Jackson?”

                        The black man glanced up when he heard his name.

                        Harper shook his head.  “No problem.  Just never seen an African in the king’s uniform before.”

                        “Probably not too many Africans in Dublin, huh?” the sergeant asked.

                        “Donegal, not Dublin,” Harper corrected, “but no, not many.”

                        “Won’t find a better soldier in red,” the sergeant told him.

                        “P’raps not, but the best soldiers are in green,” Harper retorted.

                        The skinny private chuckled.  “He’s got you there, Josiah.”

                        “Josiah Sanchez,” the sergeant introduced himself.  He jerked his head in the direction of the other men.  “Vin Tanner, Nathan Jackson.”

                        “Patrick Harper,” the Irishman replied, “of the 95th Rifles.  Temporarily attached to the Light Company of the South Essex.”

                        “South Essex?”  Sanchez repeated.  “That’s where we’re transferring into.”

                        “Are you now?  Then you might know of Major Laramore?” asked the Irishman.

                        “Larabee,” Tanner corrected.  “Major Christopher Larabee.”

                        “Decent officer?” Harper asked.

                        “The best,” Jackson replied.

                        “Brave as a lion,” Tanner added.

                        “And not half as stupid as most officers,” Sanchez concluded.  He thought a moment.  “He’s like "Daddy" Hill[3], actually sees us as more than cannon fodder.”

                        “Is it true what I’ve heard, that he’ll be taking over the Light Company personally?” Harper asked.  The remnants of the 95th Rifles that had been left behind when the rest of the regiment safely returned to England after the disastrous retreat to Corunna were attached to the Light Company of the South Essex … and had been for three years now.  Harper doubted that they'd ever rejoin their own regiment.  Hogan found them too useful where they were.

                        Sanchez shook his head.  “The major’s gonna be the colonel’s new adjutant.  Captain Wilmington, he’ll be taking over the Light Company.”

                        “Captain Sharpe might have a word or two to say about that,” Harper warned.

                        “Sharpe?  He as lucky as men claim?” Jackson asked.

                        “Is it true he seized an Imperial Eagle on the battlefield?” Tanner wanted to know.

                        “He is and he did,” Harper confirmed.   “And knows more ‘bout tactics and strategy and such than half of Wellington’s officers put together.”

                        The tent flap opened, and five officers exited Major Hogan’s tent.  The enlisted men quickly pulled themselves to attention.

                        “Sir!” Harper and Sanchez said simultaneously. 

                        Larabee glanced at Harper.  Sharpe looked at Sanchez.

                        “Get the men ready, Harper,” Sharpe ordered.  “Hogan has an errand for us.”

                        “God save Ireland,” Harper muttered under his breath. “Aye, sir.  The whole company, or just the Rifles?”

                        “Just the Rifles,” Sharpe replied.

                        “The Light Company,” Larabee ordered in the same breath.

                        Harper said nothing; a smart sergeant knew when to keep his mouth shut.

                        “Are you familiar with the Bible, Major?” Sharpe asked quietly.

                        Larabee frowned, but nodded.  This was Sharpe’s second _non sequitar_.  He hoped the man didn’t make a habit out of them.

                        “You’re in command of the mission, sir,” Sharpe acknowledged.  “But I would remind you of the story of Gideon’s band.”

                        Sanchez stared off at the horizon for a moment, then quoted, “And the Lord said unto Gideon, the people that are with thee are too many for me to give the Midianites into their hands.  Judges, chapter seven.”

                        Harper glanced at him, raising one dark bushy eyebrow.  Larabee’s men said nothing, being well used to Sanchez’s biblical knowledge.

                        “A few good men,” Larabee mused, remembering how God had ordered to Gideon to cut the size of his troops again and again.  “Your riflemen that good, Sharpe?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

                        “Yes, sir.”

                        Larabee thought a moment.  The Riflemen were the best marksmen in the king’s army, men trusted with rifles instead of muskets, men who wore green coats rather than scarlet to distinguish them from the rest of the army.  But a regiment’s light company were the skirmishers of the unit.  They ought to be capable of such a mission.  Attacking the French with only a handful of men was foolish.  And Sharpe needed to be reminded who was in command.  “The Light Company,” he repeated.

                        Sharpe nodded, very slightly, but Larabee saw the motion as the captain confirmed his order.  His eyes narrowed.  It wasn’t Sharpe’s place to confirm or contradict his orders.  There could be only one commander.  But it wouldn’t do to have this dispute in front of the enlisted men.  He’d speak to Sharpe privately, later.

                        “Aye, sir,” Harper acquiesced. 

 “But the Rifles will be first to attack,” Larabee added.

                        “We always are, sir.” Harper saluted.

                        Standish raised one eyebrow.  “Is the Hibernian bragging or complaining?”

                        Sharpe smiled, a wolfish smile that worried more than it comforted.  “Both, Lieutenant.  Both.”

 

                       

* * *

 

            

                        The next day the men of the Light Company were marching toward the _hacienda._

                        Dunne looked down from his horse at Sharpe.  "What was India like, sir?"

                        "Hot," Sharpe replied.  He marched alongside his men, the only officer not on horseback.

                        The soldiers of the South Essex Light Company stifled chuckles, amused by the captain's succinct reply, but not wanting to look as if they were eavesdropping on their betters.  The green-clad remnant of the 95th had no such inhibitions; they smiled openly, and some laughed aloud.

                        Major Larabee frowned.

                        "But you did a lot of fighting in India?" Dunne persisted.

                        "Assaye.  Chasalgoan.  Ahmednuggur.  Gawilghur.  Spent some time as an armory sergeant in Seringapatam, which is where I learned to fire every weapon in the king's arsenal."

                        "You're forgetting Tippoo Sultan, sir," Harper reminded him cheekily.

                        "No call for bragging, Harper," Sharpe admonished.

                        "You fought with Tippoo Sultan?" Wilmington asked.

                        "Fought him?"  Harper laughed, then jutted his chin toward Sharpe.  "Captain, you're looking at the man who killed him."

                        Larabee and his officers turned and looked at Sharpe, waiting for him to confirm or deny the sergeant's boast.

                        Sharpe gave a half-smile, but said nothing.

                        "Did you really kill Tippoo Sultan, sir?" Dunne asked eagerly.

                        "I've killed a lot of men, Mr. Dunne.  It's part of a soldier's job, but it's nothing to brag about," Sharpe told him.

           

                       

* * *

 

 

                        Sharpe sprawled on the ground and looked down at the _hacienda_ through his spyglass.  "There it is, Major.  _Casa de los Alamos_."

                        Larabee and Wilmington also examined the _hacienda_ through their own telescopes.  The _hacienda_ had a large picture window, and they could see into it.

                        "I see men in French uniforms," Wilmington reported.  "And a real pretty lady pouring them wine.  Suppose she's a French general's wife, following the drum, or a _señorita_ getting cozy with the Frogs?"

                        Sharpe took a second look and swore.  "We can't destroy the _hacienda_ until we get her out of there."

                        "You object to killing a woman, Sharpe?"  Larabee was surprised.  He hadn't thought that Sharpe had any chivalrous instincts or scruples.

                        "That woman I do."

                        "You know her?" Wilmington asked.

                        Sharpe nodded.    He called softly, "Harper."

                        "Who is she?" Wilmington asked.

                        " _Doña_ Teresa Moreno de Sharpe.  My wife."

                        "Your wife?!"

                        Harper joined them on the ridge.  "Aye, sir?"

                        "Problem.  Teresa's down there."

                        Harper's face lit up in a big smile at the thought of seeing Teresa again

                        "What is your wife doing drinking wine with French officers, Captain?" asked Larabee.

                        "Probably getting them drunk so she can slit their throats more easily.  She's a partisan, sir.  They call her _La Aguja_ , the Needle, because she's so good with a stiletto."

                        Wilmington stared at Sharpe, shocked at hearing a beautiful lady described so cold-bloodedly. 

                        "She's a grand lady, she is," Harper told them.  "Beautiful as a rose and as deadly a murderess as ever hung at Tyburn."

                        "Hardly a murderess," Sharpe corrected the sergeant, a jaunty tone to his voice and a grin on his face.  "She only kills Frenchmen."  He looked the spyglass again.  "Nice to see her in a dress for a change."

 

* * *

 

 

                        It was midnight before Sharpe and Harper crept down the hillside to the hacienda.  They took their time, moving slowly, scooting from one shadow to another.

                        There were only two guards outside the hacienda.  They snuck past the first one.  The second they hit over the head with a rock, then dragged his body out of sight.  They gagged him and tied his hands behind his back, then left him lying unconscious on the ground.  Harper pulled his boots off.

                        "That'll slow him down," Sharpe whispered approvingly.

                        "Aye," the sergeant agreed.  "And Hagman could use a new pair of boots."

                        Sharpe grinned, and they continued on to the house itself.

                         The door was unlocked; they didn't even need to pick the lock.

                        Sharpe and Harper went through house, silently opening bedroom doors until they found Teresa.  Sharpe was relieve to find her alone, not with some French general sharing her bed.  He wasn't sure just how far her she'd go to free her country of the French invaders, and he didn't want to know.   He had cheated on her, once or twice.  He hoped that she hadn't cheated on him, but he'd never dared to ask.  He wasn't sure she'd consider it infidelity, if it was in the line of duty.

                        Sharpe place a hand over her mouth and woke her quietly.  She started to reach for the knife hidden beneath her pillow, then saw who it was.

                        "Richard," she whispered his name and embraced him.

                        "Teresa."  He kissed her.  " _Querida_."

                        "Miss Teresa," Harper greeted her respectfully.  "Good to see you again."

                        "¿ _Como estas_ , Harper?" she replied. 

"Well, thank you, ma'am.  I hope you and wee Miss Antonia are in good health."

                        Sharpe smiled at his sergeant making drawing-room conversation at his wife in her bedroom, in a _hacienda_ filled with sleeping Frenchmen.  "Where is Antonia?"

                        "Safe, with my uncle," Teresa told him.  "You do not think I would risk our daughter by bringing her here?"

                        "Teresa, you take risks that frighten angels," Sharpe replied.  "But I know you'd never do anything to endanger Antonia.

                        "Where are the rest of your men?" she asked.

                        "Up on the hill, waiting for us to reconnoiter."                                  

                        "Bring your Rifles down," she advised.  "They will capture or kill all the French soldiers while they sleep.  I could not manage such a thing single-handed, but with their help, it will be easy."

                        "Your English is not as good as I thought, if you say easy for that," Sharpe said.

                        "They sleep like the dead.  I made sure they all drank overmuch -- especially that _cerdo_ who dared to think I would be pleased by his interest."

                        "Shall I kill him for you?"

                        She shook her head, the coal-black tresses flying hither and yon.  "Did Hogan not wish to question him, I would kill him myself."

                        "Hogan did say he'd prefer prisoners," Sharpe agreed.  He kissed her again.  "We'll be back as soon as we can, my love."

                        "Stay.  Harper can carry the message."

                        Harper's eyes twinkled.  "One man can travel more silently than two, sir.  You stay here and  ... protect Miss Teresa, and I'll go fetch the men."

                        Sharpe turned and gave the sergeant a disbelieving stare.  Teresa could protect herself better than half of Wellington's troops.  But it had been months since he'd seen his wife, and longer since they'd been able to share a real bed together, instead of just tattered blankets on the ground or a bit of hay in a barn.  Major Larabee wouldn't like it, but then Major Larabee wasn't married to _La_ _Aguja._ "Fetch the men, Harper."

                        "Yes, sir."  Harper nodded politely to the captain's wife.  "Ma'am."

 

 

* * *

 

                        Sharpe and Teresa had a very pleasant reunion. They were careful to be quiet, lest they wake the other guests in the house, but it was very, very pleasant.  When Harper reported back to Major Larabee, 'twas far less pleasant.

                        "Where's Sharpe?"

                        "Waiting for us at the _hacienda_ , sir.   _Doña_ Teresa requested we join them, said the Rifles could capture the Frenchies as they sleep.  Dead drunk they are, and sleeping like babes," Harper reported.

                        Larabee protested,  "Such a tactic is dishonorable."

                        "Begging the major's pardon, sir," Harper pointed out, "It accomplishes the mission, sir, it means less loss of life for us and for French, and if you'll forgive me for reminding you, sir, Major Hogan said he preferred prisoners to corpses."

                          Sanchez backed up the Irishman.  "He's right, Major."

                        Larabee said nothing.  If Sanchez said Harper was right, then he probably was.  He didn't like it, but Sharpe's plan -- or rather his Spanish _señora_ 's plan -- would work.  But it was the sort of plan that would occur to woman and a jumped-up sergeant, not to an officer and a gentleman.

                        "Fetch me Lieutenant Standish," Larabee ordered.  "I have an errand for him."

 

* * *

 

 

                        Under the nominal command of Standish (and the actual command of sergeants Sanchez and Harper), the Rifles scurried down to the hacienda, accompanied by Tanner and Jackson.  Harper led the way as they crept down.

                        Standish complained of the damage to his uniform and his dignity.

                        "Begging the lieutenant's pardon, sir, but if you could complain a little more quietly, our odds of the French not catching us will be much the better," Harper said.

                        "Odds are one thing the lieutenant understands," Jackson joked quietly.

                        "Cunning as serpents, Lieutenant," Sanchez reminded him quietly.

                        "Nothing in the Holy Scripture, Sergeant, mentioned crawling on my belly like a serpent," Standish whispered back.  He did, however, cease complaining aloud.

                        Presently they came upon the guard Sharpe and Harper had knocked out earlier.  Harper checked his ropes to make sure they were tight.

                        "There was only one other guard," Harper said.

                        "Want us to slit his throat or take him alive?" Hagman asked.

                        "Slitting his throat's easier," Harper acknowledged, "but if you can take him alive, I doubt he'd complain of the matter."

                        "Aye," the ex-poacher agreed.  "I doubt he will."

                        Standish listened with dismay as the two riflemen discussed throat-slitting so non-chalantly, and regretted the unfortunate misunderstanding with the colonel's wife that had forced him to transfer from a regiment that did little beyond march prettily up and down the streets of London wearing gay uniforms to a combat regiment on the Peninsula.

                        Tanner found the other guard five minutes later.  He snuck behind him and walloped him on the head, then caught the body as it fell.  Jenkins, one of Sharpe's Riflemen, helped him tie up the prisoner.

                        "This way, lads.  Captain Sharpe and Miss Teresa are waiting for us, so they are, and they've left the door unlocked to make it easier for us," Harper said.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

                        When the soldiers reached the hacienda, the door was not only unlocked, but Sharpe and Teresa were waiting there.  Standish stared at her wide-eyed.  She was one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but she was wearing trousers.  Leather trousers.  She wore a man's linen shirt beneath a leather jacket.   The unfeminine garb revealed a very feminine figure.  A pistol hung from either hip; the breeches made her hips very easy to admire.  She had a knife tucked in her belt, and the hilt of a second knife peeked up from her boots.

                        Reluctantly, Standish pulled his gaze away from her.  He saluted.  "Captain."

                        Sharpe returned the salute.  "Teresa, this is Lt. Standish.  My wife, _La Aguja_."

                        " _Encantado, señora_."  Standish gave a half-bow.  "I've brought your Riflemen, sir, as well as two or three our Major Larabee's best soldiers."

                        " _Muy bien_."  Teresa smiled at the lieutenant, then turned to Sharpe's men. Some of them saluted her; others tugged their forelocks like humble peasants in the presence of their liege-lady.   "If you can be quiet as mice, instead of marching with big, heavy boots, we can capture five of Bonaparte's _perros_.  Hogan would prefer them alive, _sí_?  But," she shrugged, "if we kill two or three and bring back the rest, I do not think Hogan will complain overmuch."

                        The Riflemen grinned.  Bloodthirsty grins, and suddenly Standish remembered what Lord Wellington was alleged to have said of the English troops: "I don't know what effect these men will have upon the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me."

"Had I been alone, I might have slit their throats, but that meant risking one of them waking and alerting the others.  With you here, we can capture them all at once."          Teresa directed them to the bedrooms, two men to each door.  At Sharpe's signal, the doors were opened simultaneously.  Standish watched in dismay as the soldiers tiptoed into the bedrooms like sneak-thieves, to capture the sleeping French generals.  It was not how he had expected war to be.

                        In ten minutes' time, the generals were dressed enough for decency's sake, and securely bound and gagged.  Also captured were their aides:  a colonel, two majors, a captain, and four lieutenants.

                        "Didn't they have any soldiers with 'em for guards and grooms?" Sanchez asked.

                        "Asleep in the barn.  I locked it from the outside."  Teresa suggested, "We could set the barn afire."

                        Standish's eyes widened. 

                        Sharpe shook his head.  "I think we have enough men to take them alive."

                        Teresa shrugged.

                        "Harper, take the lads to the barn and secure the Frenchies.  Teresa, you know where these bastards kept their maps and papers?"

                        "Sir, mind your tongue in the presence of a lady," Standish protested.

                        "Sorry, _querida_ ," Sharpe apologized half-heartedly.

                        "I have heard worse," she reminded her husband.

                        "You've said worse," he teased her.  "Sanchez, you and your men guard the prisoners.  Lt. Standish, help the lady gather up the maps."

                        "Yes, sir," Standish replied.

                        Sanchez merely nodded and aimed his rifle at the nearest general.

                       

 

 

* * *

 

TBC 

  
  ~~Rifles, Standish, Sanchez, Tanner, Jackson sneak down, capture French generals,~~ ~~take maps, papers.~~   Do not destroy hacienda, per Teresa's advice.  Teresa changes to trousers; Sharpe tells her she looked beautiful in a dress.  Generals demand to be treated according to their rank, Standish reminds of goals of French revolution, liberte, egalite, etc., all equal.  Sharpe urges not to accept their parole, French can't be trusted.  They will be attacked on the way back to Wellington's camp by French soldiers, and the fighting will be fierce.

 

[1] Horse Guards:  British military headquarters in London, the equivalent of the Pentagon.

[2] At this point in time, Sir Arthur Wellesley was Earl of Wellington.  He did not become a duke until after Waterloo.

[3] General Rowland "Daddy" Hill, 1772 - 1842

**Larabee’s Rifles**

 

 

            Richard Sharpe swore under his breath as he dipped the pen into the inkwell.   As far as he was concerned, the worst part of war – worse than the blood and rifle smoke and hunger and fatigue – was the paperwork.  His blond hair was uncombed. His green uniform jacket, somewhat tattered and stained with French blood, was thrown over the back of his chair.  He heard heavily booted steps coming toward his tent.  He prayed the footsteps would continue on and go somewhere else.  God, as usual, wasn’t listening.

            “Captain Sharpe?” a voice called in a thick Irish brogue.

            Sharpe suppressed a sigh.  “Come in, Harper.”

            Sgt. Patrick Harper pushed the tent flap aside and stepped in.  He was a big man, a bear of a man, wearing a green rifleman’s uniform.  He looked perfectly capable of putting a cannon to his broad shoulder and firing it, let alone a rifle.  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”

            “Know what?”

            “You’re about to lose the Rifles.”

            “What?”  Sharpe whirled around.  He knocked over the inkwell, spilling it all over the company records he’d just spent the last hour struggling over.

            “New officer coming in,” Harper reported.  “No room for promotion in his regiment, so he bought a promotion into the South Essex.  He’s going to be taking over.”

            Sharpe swore loudly.  There was one thing he hated more than paperwork.  He despised the British Army’s system of selling commissions, whereby a well-bred idiot with plump pockets could gain rank, whether or not he knew the first thing about fighting.  Sharpe had seen too many British soldiers risk or even lose their lives unnecessarily because some gentry-cove thought that because he’d look handsome in uniform, because he could afford the price of a commission, because he’d translated Caesar’s bloody adventures at Eton, that he had the right, the ability, to command real men. 

            Sharpe had been a sergeant, and a good one, until the day he saved Wellington’s life.  The general had granted him a battlefield commission as a reward.  He hadn’t been able to afford to buy a promotion, if his superiors had been willing to sell him a captaincy, which he doubted.  It had taken him years to fight his way from lieutenant to captain, years of commanding enlisted men who resented him and his orders because he wasn’t ‘a proper officer,’ years of dealing with ‘brother officers’ who wasted no time in letting him know that in their opinions, he was not ‘an officer and a gentleman,’ nor would he ever be.  When he had finally earned his captaincy in battle, either a clerical error at Horse Guards[1] or – more likely – malicious meddling from someone who disapproved of him getting above his station had prevented his promotion to captain from being confirmed.  He’d had to lead the Forlorn Hope over the walls of Badajoz to re-earn his captaincy and have it confirmed.

            “Who is he and when is he coming?” Sharpe demanded.

            “Major Laramore, sir.”  Harper took a deep breath before adding, “And he’s coming today.”

            “Today?  Bloody hell, Harper, usually your sources are better than that.”

            “Sorry, sir.”  The Irishman was chagrinned.  Normally the non-coms’ grapevine was more efficient.

            “What do you know about him?  Where did he serve?  Who’d he serve with?” Sharpe asked.  His voice was a little calmer now, although he wasn’t – couldn’t be – happy about the situation.  The British army had never asked for his approval before, and he doubted they were about to start now.

            Harper opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice called from outside the tent.  “Captain?”

            “Dunne.”  Sharpe recognized the voice.  It belonged to a young ensign barely older than some of the drummer boys, whom Wellington used as an errand boy.  “Come in, Dunne.”

            The teenager stepped into the tent and saluted smartly.  Despite the dust and mud of the camp, his scarlet uniform was as neatly pressed as if his mother’s abigail had just given it to him.  “Major Hogan’s compliments, sir, and you’re to report to him at once.”

            Sharpe and Harper exchanged knowing glances.  Hogan was an engineer.  He was also Wellington’s spymaster.  Sharpe reached for his jacket; one didn’t keep Hogan waiting.

            The dark-haired ensign cleared his throat.  “Um, sir?”

            One blond eyebrow rose.  “Yes, Dunne?” 

            “You might want to put on a different jacket,” Dunne suggested tentatively.

            “Sgt. Harper’s wife has my other jacket.”  Ramona Harper, like many of the sergeants’ wives, did laundry for the soldiers.  Unlike the ‘proper officers,’ Sharpe had only two jackets.  “Besides, Hogan’s never been bothered by French blood.”

            “Yes, sir,” Dunne murmured.

            “Coming, Harper?” Sharpe called over his shoulder.

            “Aye, sir.”  Harper fell in behind him.  Hogan hadn’t invited him, but Harper often tagged along behind his captain.  It made Sharpe look more important, as if he had an aide-de-camp.  Looking busy was a good way for Harper to avoid being saddled with unwanted chores (especially chores beneath the dignity of a rifleman).  And ‘twas a good way to find out what was happening.  Contrary to the officers’ suspicions, the non-coms’ grapevine didn’t just happen.  It took work.

 

            Ten minutes later, Sharpe reported to Major Hogan.  He saluted smartly.  “Captain Sharpe, reporting as ordered, sir.”

            Hogan glanced at Harper and Dunne, who flanked Sharpe.  “D’you always travel with an honor guard, Richard?”  He gave Harper a sharp look.  “Out, Pat.”  His voice was firm, but not unkind.

            “Aye, sir.”  Harper removed himself with military precision.  He might argue with Major Hogan in private, one Irishman to another, but not when there were other officers present.

            Hogan looked at Dunne a moment, as if considering whether to order him out, too.  Then he turned to the three men waiting behind him.  “Major Larabee, I have the honor to present Captain Richard Sharpe and Ensign John Dunne.  Both officers of great potential – ”

            Dunne blushed at that.

            “ – and Lord Wellington and I would both be grateful to you for not killing them unnecessarily.”[2]

            “And if it’s necessary to kill them?” Larabee asked dryly.

            “Well, that’s another matter entirely,” Hogan agreed.  His Irish accent was not quite as strong as Harper’s.  He nodded at Larabee.  “Major Christopher Larabee, the colonel’s new adjutant.  His associates, Captain Wilmington, Lieutenant Standish.”

            “I look forward to serving with you, sir,” Sharpe lied as politely as he could.  He waited to see if Larabee would extend his hand.  Too many times he’d attempted to shake hands with his fellow officers, only to be rebuffed.

            He studied the three men silently.  Larabee was tall and blond.  His face was rugged; his green eyes were solemn, almost sorrowful.  His red uniform covered a muscular body.  He looked like an actual soldier instead of a Park Avenue dandy.  Wilmington was tall –  taller than Harper – with dark curly hair and blue eyes that held a mischievous glint.  Standish was shorter, and a bit younger.  His hair was dark, with auburn highlights, and his uniform showed careful tailoring.  He did look like a Park Avenue dandy.

            Larabee did not offer his hand.  He, too, studied Sharpe in silence.

            “I’ve heard about you,” Major Larabee admitted after a moment..  “You’re supposed to be a loose cannon.  Came up from the ranks, and you don’t know your place.”

            Sharpe bit his lip to keep from making an angry retort.

            “I’ve also heard you’re a damned good soldier.”

            Sharpe relaxed a fraction of an inch.  His face remained expressionless, but his muscles unclenched slightly.  Larabee’s eyes narrowed.  Sharpe realized that Larabee had noted his movement, slight as it was.  Sharpe suspected there was very little those eyes – which on closer inspection were more hazel than green – missed.

            “In addition to assisting the colonel with the day to day running of the regiment, Major Larabee’s taken an interest in the Rifles,” Hogan explained.

            “So I’ve heard, sir,” Sharpe admitted.

            Hogan raised one bushy eyebrow, but did not comment.  “Now, I have a wee little errand that needs tending to, and your lads, Richard, could tend to it very nicely.”

                        “With all due respect, sir, your errands are more dangerous to my men than Bonaparte.”

                        Ignoring him, Hogan continued, “You know the partisans have spies among the _Afranescos_.”

                         “The _Afranescos_ , they’re the Spanish traitors?” Wilmington asked.

Hogan nodded.  “They claim they’re as loyal to Spain as the partisans are, but they want Carlos off the throne.  They thought Boney would help bring Spain into the 19th century, or at the very least, the 18th.  They didn’t expect him to seat his own brother on the throne.  We’ve learned that several of Boney’s top generals will be meeting at a _hacienda_ in the mountains.   They’ll be discussing strategy, making plans, etc.  Also delivering supplies and munitions.  Take that _hacienda_ , and Boney is crippled in Spain, his troops like a snake with its head chopped off.”

                        Standish removed a silver snuff box from his pocket and ostentatiously took a pinch of snuff.  “Unfortunately, sir, the events of the Revolution proved that the French rabble are quite capable of fighting in the absence of their betters to provide leadership.”

                        “There’s fighting and there’s organized fighting, Lieutenant.  Trust me, the loss of these men will make a difference to Napoleon’s forces,” Hogan told him.  “I want that _hacienda_ taken.  I’d prefer prisoners, but if that’s not possible then kill the buggers.  Capture the munitions if you can, destroy them if you can’t.”

                        “I was under the impression we were the king’s soldiers, not a pack of kidnappers and thieves,” Standish said disdainfully.

                        “What about the _hacienda_?  Who owns it?” Sharpe asked.

                        “What does it matter who owns it?” Larabee seemed annoyed by the _non sequitar_.

                        “If it belongs to some don who’s on a first name basis with Wellington, we’ll try not to damage the place too much.  If it belongs to an _Afranesco_ , we can just set fire to the building.”  Sharpe paused a moment.  “Artillery would be even better, but probably not practical in the mountains.”

                        “Do you call that an honorable way to do battle, Captain Sharpe?” Larabee demanded.

                        “It’s not my job to die for king and country, sir,” Sharpe retorted.  “It’s my job to make Johnny Frenchman die for Boney.”

                        Wilmington grinned.

                        Hogan looked at Larabee a moment.  “Tell me, Major, would you shoot a man in the back?”

                        “Of course not!”  Major Larabee was insulted by the question.

                        “Sharpe, would you?”

                        The rifleman nodded.  “If it meant a French scout didn’t come back to his lines with a report, or a cavalryman’s saber didn’t slice up one of my men, certainly.”  Sharpe decided not to mention that he had shot men in the back, more than once.

                        “Mr. Dunne, pay close attention to both these men,” Hogan ordered.  “Major Larabee will teach you to be an officer and a gentleman.  Captain Sharpe will teach you to be a soldier.”  He turned to Larabee.  “I’m attaching Mr. Dunne to you; the experience will be good for him.  Sharpe is captain of the South Essex’s Light Company.  Take him and his men, and take that _hacienda_.”

                        “Yes, sir,” Larabee replied.

 

 

                        Patrick Harper waited outside Hogan’s tent, his rifle slung over one shoulder.  He saw three soldiers waiting nearby, a sergeant and two privates.  The sergeant was as tall as he was, and older by several years.  One private was scrawny and scraggly, with brown hair that needed cutting.  The other private had short black hair, black as coal, and brown skin.  Harper stared.

                        The tall, tawny-haired non-com noticed his gaze.  “You got a problem with Private Jackson?”

                        The black man glanced up when he heard his name.

                        Harper shook his head.  “No problem.  Just never seen an African in the king’s uniform before.”

                        “Probably not too many Africans in Dublin, huh?” the sergeant asked.

                        “Donegal, not Dublin,” Harper corrected, “but no, not many.”

                        “Won’t find a better soldier in red,” the sergeant told him.

                        “P’raps not, but the best soldiers are in green,” Harper retorted.

                        The skinny private chuckled.  “He’s got you there, Josiah.”

                        “Josiah Sanchez,” the sergeant introduced himself.  He jerked his head in the direction of the other men.  “Vin Tanner, Nathan Jackson.”

                        “Patrick Harper,” the Irishman replied, “of the 95th Rifles.  Temporarily attached to the Light Company of the South Essex.”

                        “South Essex?”  Sanchez repeated.  “That’s where we’re transferring into.”

                        “Are you now?  Then you might know of Major Laramore?” asked the Irishman.

                        “Larabee,” Tanner corrected.  “Major Christopher Larabee.”

                        “Decent officer?” Harper asked.

                        “The best,” Jackson replied.

                        “Brave as a lion,” Tanner added.

                        “And not half as stupid as most officers,” Sanchez concluded.  He thought a moment.  “He’s like "Daddy" Hill[3], actually sees us as more than cannon fodder.”

                        “Is it true what I’ve heard, that he’ll be taking over the Light Company personally?” Harper asked.  The remnants of the 95th Rifles that had been left behind when the rest of the regiment safely returned to England after the disastrous retreat to Corunna were attached to the Light Company of the South Essex … and had been for three years now.  Harper doubted that they'd ever rejoin their own regiment.  Hogan found them too useful where they were.

                        Sanchez shook his head.  “The major’s gonna be the colonel’s new adjutant.  Captain Wilmington, he’ll be taking over the Light Company.”

                        “Captain Sharpe might have a word or two to say about that,” Harper warned.

                        “Sharpe?  He as lucky as men claim?” Jackson asked.

                        “Is it true he seized an Imperial Eagle on the battlefield?” Tanner wanted to know.

                        “He is and he did,” Harper confirmed.   “And knows more ‘bout tactics and strategy and such than half of Wellington’s officers put together.”

                        The tent flap opened, and five officers exited Major Hogan’s tent.  The enlisted men quickly pulled themselves to attention.

                        “Sir!” Harper and Sanchez said simultaneously. 

                        Larabee glanced at Harper.  Sharpe looked at Sanchez.

                        “Get the men ready, Harper,” Sharpe ordered.  “Hogan has an errand for us.”

                        “God save Ireland,” Harper muttered under his breath. “Aye, sir.  The whole company, or just the Rifles?”

                        “Just the Rifles,” Sharpe replied.

                        “The Light Company,” Larabee ordered in the same breath.

                        Harper said nothing; a smart sergeant knew when to keep his mouth shut.

                        “Are you familiar with the Bible, Major?” Sharpe asked quietly.

                        Larabee frowned, but nodded.  This was Sharpe’s second _non sequitar_.  He hoped the man didn’t make a habit out of them.

                        “You’re in command of the mission, sir,” Sharpe acknowledged.  “But I would remind you of the story of Gideon’s band.”

                        Sanchez stared off at the horizon for a moment, then quoted, “And the Lord said unto Gideon, the people that are with thee are too many for me to give the Midianites into their hands.  Judges, chapter seven.”

                        Harper glanced at him, raising one dark bushy eyebrow.  Larabee’s men said nothing, being well used to Sanchez’s biblical knowledge.

                        “A few good men,” Larabee mused, remembering how God had ordered to Gideon to cut the size of his troops again and again.  “Your riflemen that good, Sharpe?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

                        “Yes, sir.”

                        Larabee thought a moment.  The Riflemen were the best marksmen in the king’s army, men trusted with rifles instead of muskets, men who wore green coats rather than scarlet to distinguish them from the rest of the army.  But a regiment’s light company were the skirmishers of the unit.  They ought to be capable of such a mission.  Attacking the French with only a handful of men was foolish.  And Sharpe needed to be reminded who was in command.  “The Light Company,” he repeated.

                        Sharpe nodded, very slightly, but Larabee saw the motion as the captain confirmed his order.  His eyes narrowed.  It wasn’t Sharpe’s place to confirm or contradict his orders.  There could be only one commander.  But it wouldn’t do to have this dispute in front of the enlisted men.  He’d speak to Sharpe privately, later.

                        “Aye, sir,” Harper acquiesced. 

 “But the Rifles will be first to attack,” Larabee added.

                        “We always are, sir.” Harper saluted.

                        Standish raised one eyebrow.  “Is the Hibernian bragging or complaining?”

                        Sharpe smiled, a wolfish smile that worried more than it comforted.  “Both, Lieutenant.  Both.”

 

                       

            

                        The next day the men of the Light Company were marching toward the _hacienda._

                        Dunne looked down from his horse at Sharpe.  "What was India like, sir?"

                        "Hot," Sharpe replied.  He marched alongside his men, the only officer not on horseback.

                        The soldiers of the South Essex Light Company stifled chuckles, amused by the captain's succinct reply, but not wanting to look as if they were eavesdropping on their betters.  The green-clad remnant of the 95th had no such inhibitions; they smiled openly, and some laughed aloud.

                        Major Larabee frowned.

                        "But you did a lot of fighting in India?" Dunne persisted.

                        "Assaye.  Chasalgoan.  Ahmednuggur.  Gawilghur.  Spent some time as an armory sergeant in Seringapatam, which is where I learned to fire every weapon in the king's arsenal."

                        "You're forgetting Tippoo Sultan, sir," Harper reminded him cheekily.

                        "No call for bragging, Harper," Sharpe admonished.

                        "You fought with Tippoo Sultan?" Wilmington asked.

                        "Fought him?"  Harper laughed, then jutted his chin toward Sharpe.  "Captain, you're looking at the man who killed him."

                        Larabee and his officers turned and looked at Sharpe, waiting for him to confirm or deny the sergeant's boast.

                        Sharpe gave a half-smile, but said nothing.

                        "Did you really kill Tippoo Sultan, sir?" Dunne asked eagerly.

                        "I've killed a lot of men, Mr. Dunne.  It's part of a soldier's job, but it's nothing to brag about," Sharpe told him.

           

                       

 

                        Sharpe sprawled on the ground and looked down at the _hacienda_ through his spyglass.  "There it is, Major.  _Casa de los Alamos_."

                        Larabee and Wilmington also examined the _hacienda_ through their own telescopes.  The _hacienda_ had a large picture window, and they could see into it.

                        "I see men in French uniforms," Wilmington reported.  "And a real pretty lady pouring them wine.  Suppose she's a French general's wife, following the drum, or a _señorita_ getting cozy with the Frogs?"

                        Sharpe took a second look and swore.  "We can't destroy the _hacienda_ until we get her out of there."

                        "You object to killing a woman, Sharpe?"  Larabee was surprised.  He hadn't thought that Sharpe had any chivalrous instincts or scruples.

                        "That woman I do."

                        "You know her?" Wilmington asked.

                        Sharpe nodded.    He called softly, "Harper."

                        "Who is she?" Wilmington asked.

                        " _Doña_ Teresa Moreno de Sharpe.  My wife."

                        "Your wife?!"

                        Harper joined them on the ridge.  "Aye, sir?"

                        "Problem.  Teresa's down there."

                        Harper's face lit up in a big smile at the thought of seeing Teresa again

                        "What is your wife doing drinking wine with French officers, Captain?" asked Larabee.

                        "Probably getting them drunk so she can slit their throats more easily.  She's a partisan, sir.  They call her _La Aguja_ , the Needle, because she's so good with a stiletto."

                        Wilmington stared at Sharpe, shocked at hearing a beautiful lady described so cold-bloodedly. 

                        "She's a grand lady, she is," Harper told them.  "Beautiful as a rose and as deadly a murderess as ever hung at Tyburn."

                        "Hardly a murderess," Sharpe corrected the sergeant, a jaunty tone to his voice and a grin on his face.  "She only kills Frenchmen."  He looked the spyglass again.  "Nice to see her in a dress for a change."

 

 

                        It was midnight before Sharpe and Harper crept down the hillside to the hacienda.  They took their time, moving slowly, scooting from one shadow to another.

                        There were only two guards outside the hacienda.  They snuck past the first one.  The second they hit over the head with a rock, then dragged his body out of sight.  They gagged him and tied his hands behind his back, then left him lying unconscious on the ground.  Harper pulled his boots off.

                        "That'll slow him down," Sharpe whispered approvingly.

                        "Aye," the sergeant agreed.  "And Hagman could use a new pair of boots."

                        Sharpe grinned, and they continued on to the house itself.

                         The door was unlocked; they didn't even need to pick the lock.

                        Sharpe and Harper went through house, silently opening bedroom doors until they found Teresa.  Sharpe was relieve to find her alone, not with some French general sharing her bed.  He wasn't sure just how far her she'd go to free her country of the French invaders, and he didn't want to know.   He had cheated on her, once or twice.  He hoped that she hadn't cheated on him, but he'd never dared to ask.  He wasn't sure she'd consider it infidelity, if it was in the line of duty.

                        Sharpe place a hand over her mouth and woke her quietly.  She started to reach for the knife hidden beneath her pillow, then saw who it was.

                        "Richard," she whispered his name and embraced him.

                        "Teresa."  He kissed her.  " _Querida_."

                        "Miss Teresa," Harper greeted her respectfully.  "Good to see you again."

                        "¿ _Como estas_ , Harper?" she replied. 

"Well, thank you, ma'am.  I hope you and wee Miss Antonia are in good health."

                        Sharpe smiled at his sergeant making drawing-room conversation at his wife in her bedroom, in a _hacienda_ filled with sleeping Frenchmen.  "Where is Antonia?"

                        "Safe, with my uncle," Teresa told him.  "You do not think I would risk our daughter by bringing her here?"

                        "Teresa, you take risks that frighten angels," Sharpe replied.  "But I know you'd never do anything to endanger Antonia.

                        "Where are the rest of your men?" she asked.

                        "Up on the hill, waiting for us to reconnoiter."                                  

                        "Bring your Rifles down," she advised.  "They will capture or kill all the French soldiers while they sleep.  I could not manage such a thing single-handed, but with their help, it will be easy."

                        "Your English is not as good as I thought, if you say easy for that," Sharpe said.

                        "They sleep like the dead.  I made sure they all drank overmuch -- especially that _cerdo_ who dared to think I would be pleased by his interest."

                        "Shall I kill him for you?"

                        She shook her head, the coal-black tresses flying hither and yon.  "Did Hogan not wish to question him, I would kill him myself."

                        "Hogan did say he'd prefer prisoners," Sharpe agreed.  He kissed her again.  "We'll be back as soon as we can, my love."

                        "Stay.  Harper can carry the message."

                        Harper's eyes twinkled.  "One man can travel more silently than two, sir.  You stay here and  ... protect Miss Teresa, and I'll go fetch the men."

                        Sharpe turned and gave the sergeant a disbelieving stare.  Teresa could protect herself better than half of Wellington's troops.  But it had been months since he'd seen his wife, and longer since they'd been able to share a real bed together, instead of just tattered blankets on the ground or a bit of hay in a barn.  Major Larabee wouldn't like it, but then Major Larabee wasn't married to _La_ _Aguja._ "Fetch the men, Harper."

                        "Yes, sir."  Harper nodded politely to the captain's wife.  "Ma'am."

 

 

                        Sharpe and Teresa had a very pleasant reunion. They were careful to be quiet, lest they wake the other guests in the house, but it was very, very pleasant.  When Harper reported back to Major Larabee, 'twas far less pleasant.

                        "Where's Sharpe?"

                        "Waiting for us at the _hacienda_ , sir.   _Doña_ Teresa requested we join them, said the Rifles could capture the Frenchies as they sleep.  Dead drunk they are, and sleeping like babes," Harper reported.

                        Larabee protested,  "Such a tactic is dishonorable."

                        "Begging the major's pardon, sir," Harper pointed out, "It accomplishes the mission, sir, it means less loss of life for us and for French, and if you'll forgive me for reminding you, sir, Major Hogan said he preferred prisoners to corpses."

                          Sanchez backed up the Irishman.  "He's right, Major."

                        Larabee said nothing.  If Sanchez said Harper was right, then he probably was.  He didn't like it, but Sharpe's plan -- or rather his Spanish _señora_ 's plan -- would work.  But it was the sort of plan that would occur to woman and a jumped-up sergeant, not to an officer and a gentleman.

                        "Fetch me Lieutenant Standish," Larabee ordered.  "I have an errand for him."

 

 

                        Under the nominal command of Standish (and the actual command of sergeants Sanchez and Harper), the Rifles scurried down to the hacienda, accompanied by Tanner and Jackson.  Harper led the way as they crept down.

                        Standish complained of the damage to his uniform and his dignity.

                        "Begging the lieutenant's pardon, sir, but if you could complain a little more quietly, our odds of the French not catching us will be much the better," Harper said.

                        "Odds are one thing the lieutenant understands," Jackson joked quietly.

                        "Cunning as serpents, Lieutenant," Sanchez reminded him quietly.

                        "Nothing in the Holy Scripture, Sergeant, mentioned crawling on my belly like a serpent," Standish whispered back.  He did, however, cease complaining aloud.

                        Presently they came upon the guard Sharpe and Harper had knocked out earlier.  Harper checked his ropes to make sure they were tight.

                        "There was only one other guard," Harper said.

                        "Want us to slit his throat or take him alive?" Hagman asked.

                        "Slitting his throat's easier," Harper acknowledged, "but if you can take him alive, I doubt he'd complain of the matter."

                        "Aye," the ex-poacher agreed.  "I doubt he will."

                        Standish listened with dismay as the two riflemen discussed throat-slitting so non-chalantly, and regretted the unfortunate misunderstanding with the colonel's wife that had forced him to transfer from a regiment that did little beyond march prettily up and down the streets of London wearing gay uniforms to a combat regiment on the Peninsula.

                        Tanner found the other guard five minutes later.  He snuck behind him and walloped him on the head, then caught the body as it fell.  Jenkins, one of Sharpe's Riflemen, helped him tie up the prisoner.

                        "This way, lads.  Captain Sharpe and Miss Teresa are waiting for us, so they are, and they've left the door unlocked to make it easier for us," Harper said.

 

 

 

 

                        When the soldiers reached the hacienda, the door was not only unlocked, but Sharpe and Teresa were waiting there.  Standish stared at her wide-eyed.  She was one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but she was wearing trousers.  Leather trousers.  She wore a man's linen shirt beneath a leather jacket.   The unfeminine garb revealed a very feminine figure.  A pistol hung from either hip; the breeches made her hips very easy to admire.  She had a knife tucked in her belt, and the hilt of a second knife peeked up from her boots.

                        Reluctantly, Standish pulled his gaze away from her.  He saluted.  "Captain."

                        Sharpe returned the salute.  "Teresa, this is Lt. Standish.  My wife, _La Aguja_."

                        " _Encantado, señora_."  Standish gave a half-bow.  "I've brought your Riflemen, sir, as well as two or three our Major Larabee's best soldiers."

                        " _Muy bien_."  Teresa smiled at the lieutenant, then turned to Sharpe's men. Some of them saluted her; others tugged their forelocks like humble peasants in the presence of their liege-lady.   "If you can be quiet as mice, instead of marching with big, heavy boots, we can capture five of Bonaparte's _perros_.  Hogan would prefer them alive, _sí_?  But," she shrugged, "if we kill two or three and bring back the rest, I do not think Hogan will complain overmuch."

                        The Riflemen grinned.  Bloodthirsty grins, and suddenly Standish remembered what Lord Wellington was alleged to have said of the English troops: "I don't know what effect these men will have upon the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me."

"Had I been alone, I might have slit their throats, but that meant risking one of them waking and alerting the others.  With you here, we can capture them all at once."          Teresa directed them to the bedrooms, two men to each door.  At Sharpe's signal, the doors were opened simultaneously.  Standish watched in dismay as the soldiers tiptoed into the bedrooms like sneak-thieves, to capture the sleeping French generals.  It was not how he had expected war to be.

                        In ten minutes' time, the generals were dressed enough for decency's sake, and securely bound and gagged.  Also captured were their aides:  a colonel, two majors, a captain, and four lieutenants.

                        "Didn't they have any soldiers with 'em for guards and grooms?" Sanchez asked.

                        "Asleep in the barn.  I locked it from the outside."  Teresa suggested, "We could set the barn afire."

                        Standish's eyes widened. 

                        Sharpe shook his head.  "I think we have enough men to take them alive."

                        Teresa shrugged.

                        "Harper, take the lads to the barn and secure the Frenchies.  Teresa, you know where these bastards kept their maps and papers?"

                        "Sir, mind your tongue in the presence of a lady," Standish protested.

                        "Sorry, _querida_ ," Sharpe apologized half-heartedly.

                        "I have heard worse," she reminded her husband.

                        "You've said worse," he teased her.  "Sanchez, you and your men guard the prisoners.  Lt. Standish, help the lady gather up the maps."

                        "Yes, sir," Standish replied.

                        Sanchez merely nodded and aimed his rifle at the nearest general.

                       

 

 

 

  
  ~~Rifles, Standish, Sanchez, Tanner, Jackson sneak down, capture French generals,~~ ~~take maps, papers.~~   Do not destroy hacienda, per Teresa's advice.  Teresa changes to trousers; Sharpe tells her she looked beautiful in a dress.  Generals demand to be treated according to their rank, Standish reminds of goals of French revolution, liberte, egalite, etc., all equal.  Sharpe urges not to accept their parole, French can't be trusted.  They will be attacked on the way back to Wellington's camp by French soldiers, and the fighting will be fierce.

 

[1] Horse Guards:  British military headquarters in London, the equivalent of the Pentagon.

[2] At this point in time, Sir Arthur Wellesley was Earl of Wellington.  He did not become a duke until after Waterloo.

[3] General Rowland "Daddy" Hill, 1772 - 1842

**Larabee’s Rifles**

 

Susan Macdonald

 

_Richard Sharpe/Magnificent Seven AU_

 

Spain, 1812

 

 

            Richard Sharpe swore under his breath as he dipped the pen into the inkwell.   As far as he was concerned, the worst part of war – worse than the blood and rifle smoke and hunger and fatigue – was the paperwork.  His blond hair was uncombed. His green uniform jacket, somewhat tattered and stained with French blood, was thrown over the back of his chair.  He heard heavily booted steps coming toward his tent.  He prayed the footsteps would continue on and go somewhere else.  God, as usual, wasn’t listening.

            “Captain Sharpe?” a voice called in a thick Irish brogue.

            Sharpe suppressed a sigh.  “Come in, Harper.”

            Sgt. Patrick Harper pushed the tent flap aside and stepped in.  He was a big man, a bear of a man, wearing a green rifleman’s uniform.  He looked perfectly capable of putting a cannon to his broad shoulder and firing it, let alone a rifle.  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”

            “Know what?”

            “You’re about to lose the Rifles.”

            “What?”  Sharpe whirled around.  He knocked over the inkwell, spilling it all over the company records he’d just spent the last hour struggling over.

            “New officer coming in,” Harper reported.  “No room for promotion in his regiment, so he bought a promotion into the South Essex.  He’s going to be taking over.”

            Sharpe swore loudly.  There was one thing he hated more than paperwork.  He despised the British Army’s system of selling commissions, whereby a well-bred idiot with plump pockets could gain rank, whether or not he knew the first thing about fighting.  Sharpe had seen too many British soldiers risk or even lose their lives unnecessarily because some gentry-cove thought that because he’d look handsome in uniform, because he could afford the price of a commission, because he’d translated Caesar’s bloody adventures at Eton, that he had the right, the ability, to command real men. 

            Sharpe had been a sergeant, and a good one, until the day he saved Wellington’s life.  The general had granted him a battlefield commission as a reward.  He hadn’t been able to afford to buy a promotion, if his superiors had been willing to sell him a captaincy, which he doubted.  It had taken him years to fight his way from lieutenant to captain, years of commanding enlisted men who resented him and his orders because he wasn’t ‘a proper officer,’ years of dealing with ‘brother officers’ who wasted no time in letting him know that in their opinions, he was not ‘an officer and a gentleman,’ nor would he ever be.  When he had finally earned his captaincy in battle, either a clerical error at Horse Guards[1] or – more likely – malicious meddling from someone who disapproved of him getting above his station had prevented his promotion to captain from being confirmed.  He’d had to lead the Forlorn Hope over the walls of Badajoz to re-earn his captaincy and have it confirmed.

            “Who is he and when is he coming?” Sharpe demanded.

            “Major Laramore, sir.”  Harper took a deep breath before adding, “And he’s coming today.”

            “Today?  Bloody hell, Harper, usually your sources are better than that.”

            “Sorry, sir.”  The Irishman was chagrinned.  Normally the non-coms’ grapevine was more efficient.

            “What do you know about him?  Where did he serve?  Who’d he serve with?” Sharpe asked.  His voice was a little calmer now, although he wasn’t – couldn’t be – happy about the situation.  The British army had never asked for his approval before, and he doubted they were about to start now.

            Harper opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice called from outside the tent.  “Captain?”

            “Dunne.”  Sharpe recognized the voice.  It belonged to a young ensign barely older than some of the drummer boys, whom Wellington used as an errand boy.  “Come in, Dunne.”

            The teenager stepped into the tent and saluted smartly.  Despite the dust and mud of the camp, his scarlet uniform was as neatly pressed as if his mother’s abigail had just given it to him.  “Major Hogan’s compliments, sir, and you’re to report to him at once.”

            Sharpe and Harper exchanged knowing glances.  Hogan was an engineer.  He was also Wellington’s spymaster.  Sharpe reached for his jacket; one didn’t keep Hogan waiting.

            The dark-haired ensign cleared his throat.  “Um, sir?”

            One blond eyebrow rose.  “Yes, Dunne?” 

            “You might want to put on a different jacket,” Dunne suggested tentatively.

            “Sgt. Harper’s wife has my other jacket.”  Ramona Harper, like many of the sergeants’ wives, did laundry for the soldiers.  Unlike the ‘proper officers,’ Sharpe had only two jackets.  “Besides, Hogan’s never been bothered by French blood.”

            “Yes, sir,” Dunne murmured.

            “Coming, Harper?” Sharpe called over his shoulder.

            “Aye, sir.”  Harper fell in behind him.  Hogan hadn’t invited him, but Harper often tagged along behind his captain.  It made Sharpe look more important, as if he had an aide-de-camp.  Looking busy was a good way for Harper to avoid being saddled with unwanted chores (especially chores beneath the dignity of a rifleman).  And ‘twas a good way to find out what was happening.  Contrary to the officers’ suspicions, the non-coms’ grapevine didn’t just happen.  It took work.

 

            Ten minutes later, Sharpe reported to Major Hogan.  He saluted smartly.  “Captain Sharpe, reporting as ordered, sir.”

            Hogan glanced at Harper and Dunne, who flanked Sharpe.  “D’you always travel with an honor guard, Richard?”  He gave Harper a sharp look.  “Out, Pat.”  His voice was firm, but not unkind.

            “Aye, sir.”  Harper removed himself with military precision.  He might argue with Major Hogan in private, one Irishman to another, but not when there were other officers present.

            Hogan looked at Dunne a moment, as if considering whether to order him out, too.  Then he turned to the three men waiting behind him.  “Major Larabee, I have the honor to present Captain Richard Sharpe and Ensign John Dunne.  Both officers of great potential – ”

            Dunne blushed at that.

            “ – and Lord Wellington and I would both be grateful to you for not killing them unnecessarily.”[2]

            “And if it’s necessary to kill them?” Larabee asked dryly.

            “Well, that’s another matter entirely,” Hogan agreed.  His Irish accent was not quite as strong as Harper’s.  He nodded at Larabee.  “Major Christopher Larabee, the colonel’s new adjutant.  His associates, Captain Wilmington, Lieutenant Standish.”

            “I look forward to serving with you, sir,” Sharpe lied as politely as he could.  He waited to see if Larabee would extend his hand.  Too many times he’d attempted to shake hands with his fellow officers, only to be rebuffed.

            He studied the three men silently.  Larabee was tall and blond.  His face was rugged; his green eyes were solemn, almost sorrowful.  His red uniform covered a muscular body.  He looked like an actual soldier instead of a Park Avenue dandy.  Wilmington was tall –  taller than Harper – with dark curly hair and blue eyes that held a mischievous glint.  Standish was shorter, and a bit younger.  His hair was dark, with auburn highlights, and his uniform showed careful tailoring.  He did look like a Park Avenue dandy.

            Larabee did not offer his hand.  He, too, studied Sharpe in silence.

            “I’ve heard about you,” Major Larabee admitted after a moment..  “You’re supposed to be a loose cannon.  Came up from the ranks, and you don’t know your place.”

            Sharpe bit his lip to keep from making an angry retort.

            “I’ve also heard you’re a damned good soldier.”

            Sharpe relaxed a fraction of an inch.  His face remained expressionless, but his muscles unclenched slightly.  Larabee’s eyes narrowed.  Sharpe realized that Larabee had noted his movement, slight as it was.  Sharpe suspected there was very little those eyes – which on closer inspection were more hazel than green – missed.

            “In addition to assisting the colonel with the day to day running of the regiment, Major Larabee’s taken an interest in the Rifles,” Hogan explained.

            “So I’ve heard, sir,” Sharpe admitted.

            Hogan raised one bushy eyebrow, but did not comment.  “Now, I have a wee little errand that needs tending to, and your lads, Richard, could tend to it very nicely.”

                        “With all due respect, sir, your errands are more dangerous to my men than Bonaparte.”

                        Ignoring him, Hogan continued, “You know the partisans have spies among the _Afranescos_.”

                         “The _Afranescos_ , they’re the Spanish traitors?” Wilmington asked.

Hogan nodded.  “They claim they’re as loyal to Spain as the partisans are, but they want Carlos off the throne.  They thought Boney would help bring Spain into the 19th century, or at the very least, the 18th.  They didn’t expect him to seat his own brother on the throne.  We’ve learned that several of Boney’s top generals will be meeting at a _hacienda_ in the mountains.   They’ll be discussing strategy, making plans, etc.  Also delivering supplies and munitions.  Take that _hacienda_ , and Boney is crippled in Spain, his troops like a snake with its head chopped off.”

                        Standish removed a silver snuff box from his pocket and ostentatiously took a pinch of snuff.  “Unfortunately, sir, the events of the Revolution proved that the French rabble are quite capable of fighting in the absence of their betters to provide leadership.”

                        “There’s fighting and there’s organized fighting, Lieutenant.  Trust me, the loss of these men will make a difference to Napoleon’s forces,” Hogan told him.  “I want that _hacienda_ taken.  I’d prefer prisoners, but if that’s not possible then kill the buggers.  Capture the munitions if you can, destroy them if you can’t.”

                        “I was under the impression we were the king’s soldiers, not a pack of kidnappers and thieves,” Standish said disdainfully.

                        “What about the _hacienda_?  Who owns it?” Sharpe asked.

                        “What does it matter who owns it?” Larabee seemed annoyed by the _non sequitar_.

                        “If it belongs to some don who’s on a first name basis with Wellington, we’ll try not to damage the place too much.  If it belongs to an _Afranesco_ , we can just set fire to the building.”  Sharpe paused a moment.  “Artillery would be even better, but probably not practical in the mountains.”

                        “Do you call that an honorable way to do battle, Captain Sharpe?” Larabee demanded.

                        “It’s not my job to die for king and country, sir,” Sharpe retorted.  “It’s my job to make Johnny Frenchman die for Boney.”

                        Wilmington grinned.

                        Hogan looked at Larabee a moment.  “Tell me, Major, would you shoot a man in the back?”

                        “Of course not!”  Major Larabee was insulted by the question.

                        “Sharpe, would you?”

                        The rifleman nodded.  “If it meant a French scout didn’t come back to his lines with a report, or a cavalryman’s saber didn’t slice up one of my men, certainly.”  Sharpe decided not to mention that he had shot men in the back, more than once.

                        “Mr. Dunne, pay close attention to both these men,” Hogan ordered.  “Major Larabee will teach you to be an officer and a gentleman.  Captain Sharpe will teach you to be a soldier.”  He turned to Larabee.  “I’m attaching Mr. Dunne to you; the experience will be good for him.  Sharpe is captain of the South Essex’s Light Company.  Take him and his men, and take that _hacienda_.”

                        “Yes, sir,” Larabee replied.

 

 

                        Patrick Harper waited outside Hogan’s tent, his rifle slung over one shoulder.  He saw three soldiers waiting nearby, a sergeant and two privates.  The sergeant was as tall as he was, and older by several years.  One private was scrawny and scraggly, with brown hair that needed cutting.  The other private had short black hair, black as coal, and brown skin.  Harper stared.

                        The tall, tawny-haired non-com noticed his gaze.  “You got a problem with Private Jackson?”

                        The black man glanced up when he heard his name.

                        Harper shook his head.  “No problem.  Just never seen an African in the king’s uniform before.”

                        “Probably not too many Africans in Dublin, huh?” the sergeant asked.

                        “Donegal, not Dublin,” Harper corrected, “but no, not many.”

                        “Won’t find a better soldier in red,” the sergeant told him.

                        “P’raps not, but the best soldiers are in green,” Harper retorted.

                        The skinny private chuckled.  “He’s got you there, Josiah.”

                        “Josiah Sanchez,” the sergeant introduced himself.  He jerked his head in the direction of the other men.  “Vin Tanner, Nathan Jackson.”

                        “Patrick Harper,” the Irishman replied, “of the 95th Rifles.  Temporarily attached to the Light Company of the South Essex.”

                        “South Essex?”  Sanchez repeated.  “That’s where we’re transferring into.”

                        “Are you now?  Then you might know of Major Laramore?” asked the Irishman.

                        “Larabee,” Tanner corrected.  “Major Christopher Larabee.”

                        “Decent officer?” Harper asked.

                        “The best,” Jackson replied.

                        “Brave as a lion,” Tanner added.

                        “And not half as stupid as most officers,” Sanchez concluded.  He thought a moment.  “He’s like "Daddy" Hill[3], actually sees us as more than cannon fodder.”

                        “Is it true what I’ve heard, that he’ll be taking over the Light Company personally?” Harper asked.  The remnants of the 95th Rifles that had been left behind when the rest of the regiment safely returned to England after the disastrous retreat to Corunna were attached to the Light Company of the South Essex … and had been for three years now.  Harper doubted that they'd ever rejoin their own regiment.  Hogan found them too useful where they were.

                        Sanchez shook his head.  “The major’s gonna be the colonel’s new adjutant.  Captain Wilmington, he’ll be taking over the Light Company.”

                        “Captain Sharpe might have a word or two to say about that,” Harper warned.

                        “Sharpe?  He as lucky as men claim?” Jackson asked.

                        “Is it true he seized an Imperial Eagle on the battlefield?” Tanner wanted to know.

                        “He is and he did,” Harper confirmed.   “And knows more ‘bout tactics and strategy and such than half of Wellington’s officers put together.”

                        The tent flap opened, and five officers exited Major Hogan’s tent.  The enlisted men quickly pulled themselves to attention.

                        “Sir!” Harper and Sanchez said simultaneously. 

                        Larabee glanced at Harper.  Sharpe looked at Sanchez.

                        “Get the men ready, Harper,” Sharpe ordered.  “Hogan has an errand for us.”

                        “God save Ireland,” Harper muttered under his breath. “Aye, sir.  The whole company, or just the Rifles?”

                        “Just the Rifles,” Sharpe replied.

                        “The Light Company,” Larabee ordered in the same breath.

                        Harper said nothing; a smart sergeant knew when to keep his mouth shut.

                        “Are you familiar with the Bible, Major?” Sharpe asked quietly.

                        Larabee frowned, but nodded.  This was Sharpe’s second _non sequitar_.  He hoped the man didn’t make a habit out of them.

                        “You’re in command of the mission, sir,” Sharpe acknowledged.  “But I would remind you of the story of Gideon’s band.”

                        Sanchez stared off at the horizon for a moment, then quoted, “And the Lord said unto Gideon, the people that are with thee are too many for me to give the Midianites into their hands.  Judges, chapter seven.”

                        Harper glanced at him, raising one dark bushy eyebrow.  Larabee’s men said nothing, being well used to Sanchez’s biblical knowledge.

                        “A few good men,” Larabee mused, remembering how God had ordered to Gideon to cut the size of his troops again and again.  “Your riflemen that good, Sharpe?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

                        “Yes, sir.”

                        Larabee thought a moment.  The Riflemen were the best marksmen in the king’s army, men trusted with rifles instead of muskets, men who wore green coats rather than scarlet to distinguish them from the rest of the army.  But a regiment’s light company were the skirmishers of the unit.  They ought to be capable of such a mission.  Attacking the French with only a handful of men was foolish.  And Sharpe needed to be reminded who was in command.  “The Light Company,” he repeated.

                        Sharpe nodded, very slightly, but Larabee saw the motion as the captain confirmed his order.  His eyes narrowed.  It wasn’t Sharpe’s place to confirm or contradict his orders.  There could be only one commander.  But it wouldn’t do to have this dispute in front of the enlisted men.  He’d speak to Sharpe privately, later.

                        “Aye, sir,” Harper acquiesced. 

 “But the Rifles will be first to attack,” Larabee added.

                        “We always are, sir.” Harper saluted.

                        Standish raised one eyebrow.  “Is the Hibernian bragging or complaining?”

                        Sharpe smiled, a wolfish smile that worried more than it comforted.  “Both, Lieutenant.  Both.”

 

                       

            

                        The next day the men of the Light Company were marching toward the _hacienda._

                        Dunne looked down from his horse at Sharpe.  "What was India like, sir?"

                        "Hot," Sharpe replied.  He marched alongside his men, the only officer not on horseback.

                        The soldiers of the South Essex Light Company stifled chuckles, amused by the captain's succinct reply, but not wanting to look as if they were eavesdropping on their betters.  The green-clad remnant of the 95th had no such inhibitions; they smiled openly, and some laughed aloud.

                        Major Larabee frowned.

                        "But you did a lot of fighting in India?" Dunne persisted.

                        "Assaye.  Chasalgoan.  Ahmednuggur.  Gawilghur.  Spent some time as an armory sergeant in Seringapatam, which is where I learned to fire every weapon in the king's arsenal."

                        "You're forgetting Tippoo Sultan, sir," Harper reminded him cheekily.

                        "No call for bragging, Harper," Sharpe admonished.

                        "You fought with Tippoo Sultan?" Wilmington asked.

                        "Fought him?"  Harper laughed, then jutted his chin toward Sharpe.  "Captain, you're looking at the man who killed him."

                        Larabee and his officers turned and looked at Sharpe, waiting for him to confirm or deny the sergeant's boast.

                        Sharpe gave a half-smile, but said nothing.

                        "Did you really kill Tippoo Sultan, sir?" Dunne asked eagerly.

                        "I've killed a lot of men, Mr. Dunne.  It's part of a soldier's job, but it's nothing to brag about," Sharpe told him.

           

                       

 

                        Sharpe sprawled on the ground and looked down at the _hacienda_ through his spyglass.  "There it is, Major.  _Casa de los Alamos_."

                        Larabee and Wilmington also examined the _hacienda_ through their own telescopes.  The _hacienda_ had a large picture window, and they could see into it.

                        "I see men in French uniforms," Wilmington reported.  "And a real pretty lady pouring them wine.  Suppose she's a French general's wife, following the drum, or a _señorita_ getting cozy with the Frogs?"

                        Sharpe took a second look and swore.  "We can't destroy the _hacienda_ until we get her out of there."

                        "You object to killing a woman, Sharpe?"  Larabee was surprised.  He hadn't thought that Sharpe had any chivalrous instincts or scruples.

                        "That woman I do."

                        "You know her?" Wilmington asked.

                        Sharpe nodded.    He called softly, "Harper."

                        "Who is she?" Wilmington asked.

                        " _Doña_ Teresa Moreno de Sharpe.  My wife."

                        "Your wife?!"

                        Harper joined them on the ridge.  "Aye, sir?"

                        "Problem.  Teresa's down there."

                        Harper's face lit up in a big smile at the thought of seeing Teresa again

                        "What is your wife doing drinking wine with French officers, Captain?" asked Larabee.

                        "Probably getting them drunk so she can slit their throats more easily.  She's a partisan, sir.  They call her _La Aguja_ , the Needle, because she's so good with a stiletto."

                        Wilmington stared at Sharpe, shocked at hearing a beautiful lady described so cold-bloodedly. 

                        "She's a grand lady, she is," Harper told them.  "Beautiful as a rose and as deadly a murderess as ever hung at Tyburn."

                        "Hardly a murderess," Sharpe corrected the sergeant, a jaunty tone to his voice and a grin on his face.  "She only kills Frenchmen."  He looked the spyglass again.  "Nice to see her in a dress for a change."

 

 

                        It was midnight before Sharpe and Harper crept down the hillside to the hacienda.  They took their time, moving slowly, scooting from one shadow to another.

                        There were only two guards outside the hacienda.  They snuck past the first one.  The second they hit over the head with a rock, then dragged his body out of sight.  They gagged him and tied his hands behind his back, then left him lying unconscious on the ground.  Harper pulled his boots off.

                        "That'll slow him down," Sharpe whispered approvingly.

                        "Aye," the sergeant agreed.  "And Hagman could use a new pair of boots."

                        Sharpe grinned, and they continued on to the house itself.

                         The door was unlocked; they didn't even need to pick the lock.

                        Sharpe and Harper went through house, silently opening bedroom doors until they found Teresa.  Sharpe was relieve to find her alone, not with some French general sharing her bed.  He wasn't sure just how far her she'd go to free her country of the French invaders, and he didn't want to know.   He had cheated on her, once or twice.  He hoped that she hadn't cheated on him, but he'd never dared to ask.  He wasn't sure she'd consider it infidelity, if it was in the line of duty.

                        Sharpe place a hand over her mouth and woke her quietly.  She started to reach for the knife hidden beneath her pillow, then saw who it was.

                        "Richard," she whispered his name and embraced him.

                        "Teresa."  He kissed her.  " _Querida_."

                        "Miss Teresa," Harper greeted her respectfully.  "Good to see you again."

                        "¿ _Como estas_ , Harper?" she replied. 

"Well, thank you, ma'am.  I hope you and wee Miss Antonia are in good health."

                        Sharpe smiled at his sergeant making drawing-room conversation at his wife in her bedroom, in a _hacienda_ filled with sleeping Frenchmen.  "Where is Antonia?"

                        "Safe, with my uncle," Teresa told him.  "You do not think I would risk our daughter by bringing her here?"

                        "Teresa, you take risks that frighten angels," Sharpe replied.  "But I know you'd never do anything to endanger Antonia.

                        "Where are the rest of your men?" she asked.

                        "Up on the hill, waiting for us to reconnoiter."                                  

                        "Bring your Rifles down," she advised.  "They will capture or kill all the French soldiers while they sleep.  I could not manage such a thing single-handed, but with their help, it will be easy."

                        "Your English is not as good as I thought, if you say easy for that," Sharpe said.

                        "They sleep like the dead.  I made sure they all drank overmuch -- especially that _cerdo_ who dared to think I would be pleased by his interest."

                        "Shall I kill him for you?"

                        She shook her head, the coal-black tresses flying hither and yon.  "Did Hogan not wish to question him, I would kill him myself."

                        "Hogan did say he'd prefer prisoners," Sharpe agreed.  He kissed her again.  "We'll be back as soon as we can, my love."

                        "Stay.  Harper can carry the message."

                        Harper's eyes twinkled.  "One man can travel more silently than two, sir.  You stay here and  ... protect Miss Teresa, and I'll go fetch the men."

                        Sharpe turned and gave the sergeant a disbelieving stare.  Teresa could protect herself better than half of Wellington's troops.  But it had been months since he'd seen his wife, and longer since they'd been able to share a real bed together, instead of just tattered blankets on the ground or a bit of hay in a barn.  Major Larabee wouldn't like it, but then Major Larabee wasn't married to _La_ _Aguja._ "Fetch the men, Harper."

                        "Yes, sir."  Harper nodded politely to the captain's wife.  "Ma'am."

 

 

                        Sharpe and Teresa had a very pleasant reunion. They were careful to be quiet, lest they wake the other guests in the house, but it was very, very pleasant.  When Harper reported back to Major Larabee, 'twas far less pleasant.

                        "Where's Sharpe?"

                        "Waiting for us at the _hacienda_ , sir.   _Doña_ Teresa requested we join them, said the Rifles could capture the Frenchies as they sleep.  Dead drunk they are, and sleeping like babes," Harper reported.

                        Larabee protested,  "Such a tactic is dishonorable."

                        "Begging the major's pardon, sir," Harper pointed out, "It accomplishes the mission, sir, it means less loss of life for us and for French, and if you'll forgive me for reminding you, sir, Major Hogan said he preferred prisoners to corpses."

                          Sanchez backed up the Irishman.  "He's right, Major."

                        Larabee said nothing.  If Sanchez said Harper was right, then he probably was.  He didn't like it, but Sharpe's plan -- or rather his Spanish _señora_ 's plan -- would work.  But it was the sort of plan that would occur to woman and a jumped-up sergeant, not to an officer and a gentleman.

                        "Fetch me Lieutenant Standish," Larabee ordered.  "I have an errand for him."

 

 

                        Under the nominal command of Standish (and the actual command of sergeants Sanchez and Harper), the Rifles scurried down to the hacienda, accompanied by Tanner and Jackson.  Harper led the way as they crept down.

                        Standish complained of the damage to his uniform and his dignity.

                        "Begging the lieutenant's pardon, sir, but if you could complain a little more quietly, our odds of the French not catching us will be much the better," Harper said.

                        "Odds are one thing the lieutenant understands," Jackson joked quietly.

                        "Cunning as serpents, Lieutenant," Sanchez reminded him quietly.

                        "Nothing in the Holy Scripture, Sergeant, mentioned crawling on my belly like a serpent," Standish whispered back.  He did, however, cease complaining aloud.

                        Presently they came upon the guard Sharpe and Harper had knocked out earlier.  Harper checked his ropes to make sure they were tight.

                        "There was only one other guard," Harper said.

                        "Want us to slit his throat or take him alive?" Hagman asked.

                        "Slitting his throat's easier," Harper acknowledged, "but if you can take him alive, I doubt he'd complain of the matter."

                        "Aye," the ex-poacher agreed.  "I doubt he will."

                        Standish listened with dismay as the two riflemen discussed throat-slitting so non-chalantly, and regretted the unfortunate misunderstanding with the colonel's wife that had forced him to transfer from a regiment that did little beyond march prettily up and down the streets of London wearing gay uniforms to a combat regiment on the Peninsula.

                        Tanner found the other guard five minutes later.  He snuck behind him and walloped him on the head, then caught the body as it fell.  Jenkins, one of Sharpe's Riflemen, helped him tie up the prisoner.

                        "This way, lads.  Captain Sharpe and Miss Teresa are waiting for us, so they are, and they've left the door unlocked to make it easier for us," Harper said.

 

 

 

 

                        When the soldiers reached the hacienda, the door was not only unlocked, but Sharpe and Teresa were waiting there.  Standish stared at her wide-eyed.  She was one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but she was wearing trousers.  Leather trousers.  She wore a man's linen shirt beneath a leather jacket.   The unfeminine garb revealed a very feminine figure.  A pistol hung from either hip; the breeches made her hips very easy to admire.  She had a knife tucked in her belt, and the hilt of a second knife peeked up from her boots.

                        Reluctantly, Standish pulled his gaze away from her.  He saluted.  "Captain."

                        Sharpe returned the salute.  "Teresa, this is Lt. Standish.  My wife, _La Aguja_."

                        " _Encantado, señora_."  Standish gave a half-bow.  "I've brought your Riflemen, sir, as well as two or three our Major Larabee's best soldiers."

                        " _Muy bien_."  Teresa smiled at the lieutenant, then turned to Sharpe's men. Some of them saluted her; others tugged their forelocks like humble peasants in the presence of their liege-lady.   "If you can be quiet as mice, instead of marching with big, heavy boots, we can capture five of Bonaparte's _perros_.  Hogan would prefer them alive, _sí_?  But," she shrugged, "if we kill two or three and bring back the rest, I do not think Hogan will complain overmuch."

                        The Riflemen grinned.  Bloodthirsty grins, and suddenly Standish remembered what Lord Wellington was alleged to have said of the English troops: "I don't know what effect these men will have upon the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me."

"Had I been alone, I might have slit their throats, but that meant risking one of them waking and alerting the others.  With you here, we can capture them all at once."          Teresa directed them to the bedrooms, two men to each door.  At Sharpe's signal, the doors were opened simultaneously.  Standish watched in dismay as the soldiers tiptoed into the bedrooms like sneak-thieves, to capture the sleeping French generals.  It was not how he had expected war to be.

                        In ten minutes' time, the generals were dressed enough for decency's sake, and securely bound and gagged.  Also captured were their aides:  a colonel, two majors, a captain, and four lieutenants.

                        "Didn't they have any soldiers with 'em for guards and grooms?" Sanchez asked.

                        "Asleep in the barn.  I locked it from the outside."  Teresa suggested, "We could set the barn afire."

                        Standish's eyes widened. 

                        Sharpe shook his head.  "I think we have enough men to take them alive."

                        Teresa shrugged.

                        "Harper, take the lads to the barn and secure the Frenchies.  Teresa, you know where these bastards kept their maps and papers?"

                        "Sir, mind your tongue in the presence of a lady," Standish protested.

                        "Sorry, _querida_ ," Sharpe apologized half-heartedly.

                        "I have heard worse," she reminded her husband.

                        "You've said worse," he teased her.  "Sanchez, you and your men guard the prisoners.  Lt. Standish, help the lady gather up the maps."

                        "Yes, sir," Standish replied.

                        Sanchez merely nodded and aimed his rifle at the nearest general.

                       

 

 

 

  
  ~~Rifles, Standish, Sanchez, Tanner, Jackson sneak down, capture French generals,~~ ~~take maps, papers.~~   Do not destroy hacienda, per Teresa's advice.  Teresa changes to trousers; Sharpe tells her she looked beautiful in a dress.  Generals demand to be treated according to their rank, Standish reminds of goals of French revolution, liberte, egalite, etc., all equal.  Sharpe urges not to accept their parole, French can't be trusted.  They will be attacked on the way back to Wellington's camp by French soldiers, and the fighting will be fierce.

 

[1] Horse Guards:  British military headquarters in London, the equivalent of the Pentagon.

[2] At this point in time, Sir Arthur Wellesley was Earl of Wellington.  He did not become a duke until after Waterloo.

[3] General Rowland "Daddy" Hill, 1772 - 1842


End file.
